late winter afternoon

Sitting at a kitchen table spread with: papers with notes and scribbles from a writing project, opened bills, exterior house paint samples, Bibles and other books, credit card, dirty paper towel from Max's last face-wipe, water glasses, telephone, overflowing fruit bowl, pens, scarf, and a letter from the Swedish transportation department notifying me that I am now eligible for driving övningskör (learner driver).

As I have sat here, reading and typing, Martin has progressively fed Max a mash of fish and vegetables, then smörgåsrån with liver paste, followed by banana. He sits in his blue plastic high chair and awkwardly (yet capably, for a ten-month-old) operates a spoon with both left and right hand, dashing it into  both bowl and plate and growing angry if we dare presume to remove either tool from his grasp.

His first words are distinctly Swedish. It's still a bit strange to me. Titta. Look. And when handed food, tack tack. Thanks thanks. It's stranger still that the previously incomprehensible sounds of Swedish have become comprehensible words and meanings. The strangest yet is hearing and understanding Norwegian on television.

Thinking on these things and sitting here on a late winter's afternoon, warmed by the cozy chaos of family life, insulated from the fresh, heavy dump of snow we received this morning. (The snow ruined my hopes for pruning and wood cutting work, and building that raised bed for my pumpkins. But it also afforded a short snow-ball fight while Max was sleeping.)

Now for eating left-overs scrounged from the fridge and lying on the living room carpet for baby wrestling.